Sweet Dreams Are Made of These
by sugarplumdreams
Summary: Emma can't stop dreaming about Killian.


**A/N:** This is part of my effort to combat the hater nation in the fandom by spreading otp love via (smutty) fic goodness. My original intention was to write short little smutty drabbles for everyone left on my list who had reblogged my request post and to post them in groups of 10 or so, but then I decided longer fics might work best and then I can just dedicate a fic to each group... then _this_ monster happened and it quickly spiraled out of control so this is dedicated to about 20 something shipmates (listed at the bottom). You're all lovely :3 (Posted to Tumblr April 13, 2014.)

* * *

**Sweet Dreams Are Made of These**

They're on the deck of his ship underneath the starry night sky. She's sprawled out on a crate, propped up on her elbows as she watches him work her jeans off of her legs.

"Have I ever told you how much I love your legs?"

She swallows thickly, breath backing up into her lungs as his gaze meets hers while he presses a gentle kiss to her inner thigh. "No," she breathes.

He smiles slowly, a devastating curving of lips that softens his too-handsome face and he turns his lips to her other thigh. "Well, I do."

She shivers, head tilting back when she feels his mouth inching lower. "Oh?" He's so close, so close to where she wants him. _God_.

"Mmhmm," he affirms, and he lightly brushes his lips over her through her panties..

Emma's body jerks, hips bucking up in response as a moan tears itself from her throat and her head starts to swim. She dimly hears him chuckle before she feels his hook and fingers sliding beneath the lacy material.

"You wouldn't happen to be partial to these, would you?"

She can barely comprehend his words, can barely make sense of his intentions because her brain has ceased functioning. "What?" There's a sharp tug, the sound of ripping fabric as he tears her underwear to fucking _shreds_ with a playful little nip to her hipbone. "Oh _God_." She lowers her eyes to the top of his dark head, breaths coming out in panting gasps as she watches him use his tongue to trail a path back to her throbbing center.

"It's bloody beautiful you are," he murmurs, hot breath dancing over her.

Her body coils in anticipation, stomach clenching when his bright blue, lust-filled eyes lift to her green, and then his tongue flicks out over that sweet little bundle of nerves. She whimpers, the air exploding from her as her skin ignites and stars dance along the edges of her vision. "_Fuck._"

She wakes abruptly in a tangle of sheets — skin damp, chest heaving and a pulsing ache between her legs. She's hot, warm all over, and she kicks at the bedspread to try to relieve some of the tightness suffocating her. Her eyes dart around the darkness of her room while her brain tries to catch up with the rest of her — it was a dream, it was just a dream.

_Shit_. Her head flops back onto her pillow and she groans frustratedly. This is bad. _This is very bad._

* * *

"_Emma._"

She glances up, a smug smile playing on her lips at the sight of him utterly _wrecked_ above her. "Yes?"

"Gods, _please_," he begs, and his hand tightens in her hair.

Her fingers dance along his length and she presses a chaste kiss to the tip of him. "Please _what_?"

He curses, hips thrusting forward into her hand when she finally grasps him. "_Minx_," he hisses through gritted teeth.

She chuckles then licks wickedly at the underside of him before taking him into her mouth. She relishes in the silky heat of him, the way his swears fill the air, and the way his body bucks when she pulls him in deeper and lightly scrapes her teeth along him as she goes.

_Mine_, she thinks.

When she wakes up, she's hunched over her desk at work, cheek pressed flat into the files she'd been staring blankly at about an hour ago before she'd fallen asleep. Her body is warm, trembling, and she lets out a frustrated groan as she fights to come more fully awake. She scrubs her hands over her face while she sits up in her chair, doing her best to ignore the images dancing behind her eyes of her making _him_ come undone with her mouth alone.

_Fuck_.

She makes a sound of distress in the back of her throat then buries her face in her arms when they rest back onto the desk. She is never going to sleep again. Ever. For the rest of her life.

* * *

She remembers the weight of him, hot and heavy and thick as he settles into her. She remembers the praises on his lips, whispered against her heated skin as she tangles her fingers in his hair. She remembers the unhurried slide of him, the press of his body into hers as he gives and gives and _gives_…

She remembers the way his mouth closes over her breast, tongue swirling around the tight bud of her nipple. She remembers the arch of her back, the pleas that spill from her mouth and the gruff chuckle in the back of his throat. She remembers whimpering — embarrassingly so — but not caring the minute his lips came hungrily back to hers.

She remembers the climb, the desperate way she clings to his shoulders and tilts her hips _just right_ to take him in a little deeper. _More_, she'd whined…_let go_, he'd replied. She remembers that she couldn't, shaking her head in protest as the emotions became too much. She remembers him reaching between them, remembers the brush of his thumb against her clit, the choked sob in her throat as her body clenched in response. _Let go_, he'd asked again, groan reverberating through his chest and into hers.

Emma jumps with a start when Ruby snaps her fingers in front of her face, neck and cheeks flushing hot immediately at the brunette's concerned look.

"Hey, you okay?" Ruby wonders, setting Emma's cocoa down in front of her with curious eyes and an arched brow.

Aside from the blatant lack of sleep affecting her ability to function like a normal human being, she is fucking fantastic. Emma clears her throat and averts her eyes. "Never better."

The brunette doesn't reply right away, simply makes a humming noise and continues to study her. "Don't take this the wrong way," she says eventually, head canting to the side. "But you look like shit."

She snorts and raises her to-go cup to toast Ruby before taking a sip, though she doesn't respond.

"Want to talk about it?" Ruby asks.

She takes a second to think about that, takes a second to allow the insistent flashes of memories to flicker through her mind — his fingers digging into her hip, her legs locking around his waist, the push and pull of their bodies — before she clears her throat and shakes her head.

The chiming of the door draws her attention to it and the sight of him in the doorway makes her body jerk as more images crowd her overwhelmed mind — the scrape of his beard against her inner thigh as he presses a kiss there, the dip of his tongue into slick heat and the rough trail of calloused fingers over her torso as his hand inches up to cover her breast.

Emma's face burns as she abruptly glances away from him to pass Ruby some bills. "Nope. Definitely don't want to talk about it."

Ruby takes the money, free hand wrapping around Emma's wrist to draw her eyes to hers. "You said his name," she says quietly.

"What?" Emma blinks, unsure she heard her correctly.

Her would-be Godmother gives her knowing, sympathetic smile. "You said his name while you were daydreaming…Killian."

She doesn't bother looking up as she pushes back from the counter, doesn't bother looking at _him_ as she shoves past with a curt reply to his greeting when he approaches the counter, just walks out of the diner and heads for her car while ignoring the squeeze in her heart and the ache between her legs.

* * *

"Where'd you get the scar on your cheek?" she wonders, rubbing at his bare calf with her foot while she lays atop him, sated after a particularly rigorous last few hours having quite possibly the best sex of her life. Her chin is pillowed on her arms where they rest over his chest and she thumbs gently at the thin blemish.

He smiles sleepily, hooded eyes moving gently across her face as he studies her, memorizing her. Then he reaches up and strokes at the tiny scar just over her brow with his own thumb. "Where'd you get this?"

"I asked first," she murmurs, lips curving up.

"Yes but, seeing as how _I'm_ a gentleman, I must insist for the lady to go first."

She snorts at that, leaning forward to brush her mouth gently over his. "I don't know…it's kind of a long story."

"I've got time," he replies, fingertips tracing over her cheekbone. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You promise?" The words are out before she can stop them — frightening, vulnerable, worrisome.

"I promise." He smiles again — affectionate, easy, _real — _then he lifts his head, leaning forward to touch his lips to hers again, as if to seal the vow with a kiss.

"Emma?"

David's hand waves across her face, jarring her from her thoughts and the _fifth_ daydream she's had that afternoon. _Shit._

Her father's concerned face swims into her vision as her brain tries to focus. "You alright?" he wonders.

Of course she isn't fucking alright. Her heart aches, she aches _everywhere. _She hasn't slept properly in nearly a week and a half. She can't get away from him. He is everywhere, not just in her dreams anymore, but in her _day_dreams, bleeding through into her life — damn him.

She's seen every single _place_, every single glorious _way_, they've had each other _(Jesus)_ and if that's _all _it was — all ridiculously vivid dreams of a man with unruly dark hair, sea-storm blue eyes, and a face handsome as sin doing unspeakable, delicious _things_ to her — she _might_ have been able to just suck it up and deal with it, but it's not, because now there are…_tender_ moments.

Scenarios of simplicity and domesticity — meeting at Granny's for hot cocoa, weekends aboard the Jolly Roger out in open waters (just them and Henry), strolls along the beach (_hand-in-hand_ for fuck's sake), dinners with her parents, a Goddamn _puppy_ that he brings home for her and Henry (adorable idiot) — and all these other _situations_. Sure, it isn't ideal, but she can (and would gladly) deal with waking up in a tangled mess of sheets, unsatisfied and needy and desperately _wanting_ and unable to fall back asleep, rather than being constantly and bitterly reminded of what she can't possibly have in the mess that is her life.

She scrubs her hands tiredly over her warm face. "Of course, why wouldn't I be?"

"You don't look fine," David tells her.

_No shit, Sherlock_. She sighs and reminds herself not to take out her sexual frustration and overwhelming anxiety on her father. "I'm _fine_. Look, I'm going to take off for the day, you okay to pick up a few extra hours?"

"Yeah, of course."

His watchful eyes bore into hers and she averts her gaze, afraid he'll see too much of what's been keeping her up at night. She rises from her seat and slips her arms into her jacket before shrugging it on.

"You sure you're okay?" David asks again.

She touches her hand to his arm as she passes by. "Nothing a little caffeine won't cure."

* * *

His mouth is clamped to her neck, tongue and teeth grazing across sensitive flesh. "Do you want me, Emma?" he asks, voice light and teasing.

She lets out a ragged breath, pushing him into the closest chair in his cabin. "Shut up," she snaps, straddling his lap and tugging her shirt over her head and gripping at his hair to force his head back so she can lick a line from neck to chin to mouth. "Do you want to waste time talking or do you want to _fuck me_?"

It's the all the encouragement he needs, a low growl sounding in the back of his throat as his hand delves into her hair and pulls her forward to crush their lips together. The kiss is full, open-mouthed, _carnal_ and as his tongue moves roughly with hers, she has the mind to think that her toes might just be curling and _Christ almighty_.

His hook slips under the strap of her bra, sliding it down before moving his mouth to the newly exposed skin. She gasps at the feel of his teeth over her collarbone, hips grinding against his when his hand grasps the other strap and moves it aside. He moves his mouth lower, tongue laving at the edge of one lace cup and Emma keens. _Fuck_. She wishes he would hurry _up_. As if reading her thoughts, his tongue slips beneath the material, flicking across her nipple and sending her body into overdrive. She curses again, out loud this time and rubs herself over the hard bulge of him. Friction, she needs _friction_.

He chuckles, lifting his head to look at her with bright blue eyes. He bumps his nose affectionately against hers, the gesture leaving a sweet ache in her heart. "Show me how you want me, Swan. Show me."

She throws her head back, hips bucking into his as her hands grip his shoulders for purchase.

"That's it, love," he coos, hand and hook reaching down to grip at her hips — guiding her, encouraging her, anchoring her. "Are you wet for me, Swan? _Aching _for me to be inside you?"

His fingers squeeze — a bruising amount — and she knows she'll bear his marks later. It drives her crazy, makes her skin spark and sets the flame burning low in her belly to a blaze. _Yes. Oh God, yes._

A hand falls to her shoulder gently and Emma jolts up in the booth at Granny's, the napkin she happened to fall asleep on sticking to her face. She brushes it aside, cursing foully as a very pregnant Mary Margaret slides into the booth across from her. Her brows are pinched, eyes the epitome of concern.

"Hey," she says quietly.

"Hi," Emma grumbles, rubbing at her eyes and mumbling to herself about needing more caffeine.

"Emma, honey," her mother starts, cutting right to the chase. "What is going on with you? Are you alright?"

"I'm _fine_," she grits out, and the images form like a piece of artwork in her mind — she sees herself sinking down onto Hook after having wiggled out of the rest of her clothes and throwing her head back in unbridled pleasure as she takes and takes and _takes_.

She remembers how she'd ridden him hard, relentless in her pursuit for her release. _So tight, Swan_, he'd told her…_so wet for me_, he'd smirked. She'd ordered him to shut up again but the words had been choked on the minute he'd reached between them to brush his thumb over her clit in quick strokes. She was losing her mind, she was losing her Goddamn mind.

"No, you're not," Mary Margaret replies. "Look, I don't know what's happening, but if you think your father and I haven't noticed that you're barely sleeping, that you don't touch your food, and that you've basically been living on caffeine for almost two weeks, you are sorely mistaken."

Emma's face scrunches, nose wrinkling as she frowns at her mother. She knows that tone, she _hates_ that tone. If she were operating at full strength, she'd have the mind to think that her mother was being ridiculous — she is a grown-ass woman for God's sake, she doesn't need to be chastised over how she copes with her unfulfilled desires.

As if on cue, _he_ materializes from the back of the diner through the connecting hallway of the Inn — all smiles and soft expressions and an arm slung companionably around her son (_Her son_! The _nerve_!). He glances back over his shoulder and she sees him toss a grin to her _father_ _(Prince_ _Traitor)_, who claps him on the back like they've been old pals _forever_.

She's positively seething by the time the three of them are almost upon the table, clenched fists trembling in her lap as she scowls at him. He lights up like a Goddamn Christmas tree when he sees her and the flip in her stomach makes her curse as she scrambles out of the booth. She can't stay here, she needs to go — she needs to go _now_.

"Emma?" Mary Margaret asks, confusion coloring her voice. "What are you- where are you going?"

"You're right," she laughs wryly. "I've been feeling under the weather, I'm going back-"

"Swan," he greets, cutting her off with a dashing grin.

She rolls her eyes at him as she loops her scarf around her neck (she'd rather choke him with it). She grabs her keys and points her finger accusingly him. "_You_," she practically snarls. "Don't follow me."

And with that she turns on her heel and storms out of the diner. Before she goes home she stops by the store to pick up a pack of Redbull and three scary movies. She's not sleeping a wink, not a damn wink if she has anything to say about it.

* * *

When she stumbles into Regina's foyer a few days later, she's glassy-eyed and foggy-brained and everything is excruciatingly funny.

"Hi," she hiccups, clamping her hand over her mouth and giggling over the sound. "I have the hiccups."

Regina's brow arches, hands falling to her waist. "Yes, I can see that."

"'Gina," she slurs, grasping the woman's arm and tugging her into the living room. "I need your help."

"You need a comb and about three-days worth of sleep."

"More like three weeks, but nobody's counting." She curves her hand over her mouth like she's sharing a secret. "Except for me, I'm counting, but _shhhhhh._"

Regina scowls, face scrunching in annoyance. "Are you drunk, Ms. Swan?"

"Yes," she admits freely, depositing Regina in front of the fireplace and backing up a few paces. "But it's going to be okay. You just need to help me."

"I'm sorry, I am…_extremely_ confused right now-"

"I just need you to give me a sleeping potion," Emma interrupts.

"I'm sorry," Regina squints, shaking her head as if to clear it. "You want a sleeping potion? For what?"

"Because."

"I'm not just going to _give you_ a sleeping potion if you're not going to tell me what it is you need it for. That's reckless and irresponsible and I will not be apart of-"

"Look at you," Emma interrupts, smirking at her while gesturing with her hand in flourish. "So _soft_ now all because of that Bandit- Archer- man- _thing_."

"_Excuse me?_ Soft? I am _not_ soft-"

"Alright, then prove it." Emma claps her hands together once then plants her feet before curling her fingers up a few times. "Blast me with your magic."

"_What?_" The queen looks scandalized and her expression is so appalled, Emma can't help but giggle again.

"Knock me out," Emma says. "Blast me with your magic and knock me out."

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?"

"Look lady, I haven't slept _at all_ in three fucking days. Blast me with your Goddamn magic and put me out of my misery." She repeats the gesture, clapping her hands together then crooking her fingers at Regina. "Come on. Show me what ya got."

The front door opens and the commotion that enters Regina's home makes Emma wince as the room spins. She manages to make out Henry and Roland's laughter followed by their stampeding feet (_hooligans_) up the stairs. Ah, and there's Regina's dimpled Bandit, speaking animatedly to-

Her body jolts at _his_ voice — at his lilting laughter and charming accent that she's memorized to a T from her dreams and she wants to rage. When they walk into the living room, two handsome men (one ruggedly, the other classically), she practically bares her teeth.

"_You_," she snaps, gaze burning into Hook's.

"Swan?" His face looks concerned as he takes in her disheveled state, abruptly striding towards her. "Bloody hell, what's wrong? Are you alright?"

She slaps his hand away when he reaches for her, stepping into his space and digging her finger into his chest. "How _dare_ you."

His stupid eyebrow shoots up as his eyes flicker back and forth between her and her finger. "I beg your pardon?"

"You and your stupid face and your kind eyes and your _fucking_ good form and your _mouth_ — ugh, _God, your mouth_…" She pauses, eyes suddenly far away as she recalls his blessed, _blessed_ mouth. She sighs wistfully, just once, then turns on him again. "How dare you, _how fucking dare you! _I hope you're happy, I hope you're pleased with yourself…driving me Goddamn _insane_ and-"

There's a bright flash of light and purple smoke at the back of Emma's head that interrupts her tirade. Her eyes widen and the entire world goes eerily still as her body slowly relaxes. His is the last face she sees before her eyes close and she drops off into blissful oblivion. She misses Hook's curse as he catches her before she can hit the ground, scooping her into his arms and cradling her gently when her head rolls onto his shoulder. She misses the glower he sends to Regina and the biting tone in his voice.

"Was that _really_ necessary?" he barks.

"Oops?" she shrugs nonchalantly. "My hands slipped."

He rolls his eyes and shifts Emma slightly in his arms. "What the bloody hell happened?"

She shrugs again but gives him an amused look that doesn't convince him she's as in the dark as she claims. "Take your Savior home, Pirate. She'll sleep for awhile yet."

* * *

She's not supposed to dream of him. She's not supposed to dream of his too-blue eyes and the way the dimples in his cheeks deepen when he smiles, or how his eyes crinkle when he laughs, or how he always smells of sea and leather and spice. She not supposed to feel the silky texture of his hair in between her fingers or feel the scratch of his scruff on her shoulder when he kisses her neck or hear the special way he says her name, _Swan. _

_Swan, Swan, Swan._

But she does, and when she turns her face to him, her mouth seeking the familiar warmth of his, she thinks, _fine_…_just once, just this once_ — and she presses her lips to his. There's a gasp, a sigh, her name whispered against her mouth and she smiles. It's just a dream, she can do that here…she can give in just a little here.

"_Emma_," he breathes, as he always breathes — like it's simultaneously too much and never enough — and it makes her heart clench how sweetly it sounds on his tongue.

She hums, curving her body over his and straddling his legs as she keeps contact with his mouth. She rocks her hips into his — as she's done a million times in these dreams — and his breath explodes out on a _whoosh_. She nips playfully at his bottom lip, teeth tugging sharply before she soothes over the spot with her tongue.

"_Emma_," he says again, groaning loudly. "_Emma, wait._"

_Wait?_ What for? They never waited, they always just took and- her body stills suddenly. He's never asked her to wait, not in the entire time she's started having these fantasies of him. Her heart stutters in her chest and when she pulls away to look at him, her worst suspicions are confirmed true.

He's watching her with wide eyes, his expression slightly pained though awed and _fuck_. Her trembling hand reaches up to cup his face — he is warm and so very _real_ beneath her fingertips — and she swears before rolling off of him and putting the length of the room between them.

"Swan-"

"Oh my God," she cuts in, panic creeping into the edges of her voice. "Oh my _God_. You're real. You're not a dream."

He sighs, sitting up from his place on the bed and swinging his legs over the edge to stand. "Swan-"

"_Don't_," she cries. "Please don't." Her head is reeling, actually spinning on its axis. "Oh _God_, did you- did _we-_"

"No," he assures her. "You…" He scrubs his hand tiredly over his face. "Regina…she blasted you with magic, you slept for over 24-hours-"

"But how- why were you-" She waves frantically at the bed, images of them spooning and making love and cuddling flashing into her from past dreams.

"You…you wept in your sleep," he explains, taking a step towards her and stopping only when she steps back. "You couldn't wake up…I didn't- I didn't know how else to comfort you, so I…held you."

Tears spring up behind her eyes, chest achingly tight as she looks at him. She can't breathe, she can't fucking _breathe_ because a part of her _knows_ without a shadow of a doubt that she _was_ comforted. "I can't do this," she tells him. "I'm sorry, I can't do this."

When she runs, he doesn't go after her.

* * *

"How long are we going to keep doing this?" he wonders.

She slams her file cabinet shut, refusing to look at him. "Go away, Hook. I have a lot of work to do."

"You're just going to avoid me forever?"

Emma doesn't reply, making her point with her lack of speech.

"Swan," he sighs exasperatedly, standing at her elbow and staring down at her.

She sighs back, pen moving frantically across the paper. Her grip is so strong she swears she's going to snap it into two. She senses, rather than sees, him reach up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. The silence is deafening, eating away at the space and twisting her stomach into knots. She's not going to do this, she's not. Finally he simply crouches down beside her, resting his forehead against her arm. Her entire body goes still, throat closing up as she shakes lightly beneath him. She swallows thickly when he places his chin where his forehead used to be.

"You said my name in your sleep," he says quietly. "You dreamt of me. You've _been_ dreaming of me, haven't you?"

The fucking tears are there again, welling up insistently behind her eyes.

"Swan…" He pauses long enough to exhale a shaky breath. "You don't have to. This…whatever this is between us…it doesn't have to be just a dream."

Emma doesn't answer, merely presses her lips together to try to ward off the emotions threatening to spew over because oh _God_, how she _wants_. _No_, she thinks firmly. She is _not_ going to do this, she reminds herself, ignoring the intense way his eyes are watching her profile. At her prolonged silence, he rises to his feet, but his hand cradles her head and he presses a gentle kiss to her brow. He lingers for a second, long enough for a tear to slip past her defenses and onto her cheek, and then he's gone…but somehow, he manages to stay with her for a long time after.

* * *

The dreams stop. After weeks of mindless torture (pleasure), they're suddenly gone. She sleeps like a normal person again, a perfect 7-8 hours everyday for the last three days, yet she feels…restless, _unsatisfied_…almost like, she misses them (_him_). But that's absurd, isn't it?

She sips idly at her orange juice (she's giving herself a break from caffeine) and happens to glance up just as he emerges from the back hallway. He stops the second his eyes meet hers and her heart lodges itself into her throat because…it's not absurd at all.

His ever expressive eyes bore into hers — seeing, knowing, waiting…

It all flashes into her then — the last few years, everything he's done for her, everything he continues to _do_, his unwavering belief in her, his _constancy. _She knows the warmth of his hand, the press of his mouth, the way his eyes change color depending on his mood (though sometimes she thinks it's whatever the sea's mood happens to be that particular day), the gruff tone of his voice whenever her name spills from his lips — these aren't from her dreams, these are from her life, and it's absurdly _right_.

He averts his gaze then doesn't say anything as he passes, doesn't so much as look at her. She turns her head, eyes following him out the door and lingering long after he's gone, heart aching for an entirely different reason. She gives in to the urge to rub the heel of her hand over the sore spot.

* * *

She barges into his room at the ass-crack of dawn a few days later, startling him up from his bed. He squints at her, hair sticking up every which way as the sheet falls to his waist. She has a sneaking suspicion he's sans clothes — _good_, he won't need them for this. Emma slams the door behind her, then abruptly shrugs out of her jacket.

"Swan?" he mumbles, dumbstruck. "What are you- did you break into my quarters?"

"Yup." She tugs her t-shirt over her head and his eyes widen in surprise — now she's got his attention.

"Are you drunk?"

"Nope."

She walks across the room to the bed, shimmying out of her jeans when she gets there, then climbs into bed — splaying herself out, straddling his legs and settling her weight against him.

"Perhaps tis merely a dream then," he murmurs, barely breathing as his hand reaches up to cup her face hesitantly, his eyes following the movement.

She closes her eyes at the first skim of his fingertips, sighing contentedly as her lips curve up ever so slightly. "It might be."

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" he asks.

"Really?" she opens her eyes to quirk her brow at him. "What do you think?"

"I don't know what to think," he replies. "I'm still not quite convinced you're naught but a figment of my very vivid imagination."

She leans forward then, gently touching her mouth to his and coaxing him into the warmth of her. He matches her rhythm seamlessly, as if they'd done this a million times before already, and when the memories from her dreams surface again, instead of pushing them away she hangs onto them, keeps them close to her heart.

She feels his hand move lazily up her back, fingers tangling in the ends of her hair, and when she pulls away to catch her breath, she rests her forehead against his. "How was that for vivid?"

He chuckles lightly but doesn't say anything more, perhaps afraid that she'll disappear as she always does. The thought makes her heart squeeze, makes her reach up to tenderly rest her palm against his cheek.

"I hope you're happy," she tells him. "You've ruined me."

He pulls away, needing to see her face, needing to meet her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You and your stupid longing, doe-eyed looks and your tenacity and your laugh and your capacity to love…everything about you — you've fucking ruined me, Killian Jones."

He laughs then, a full-bodied, joyous laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes and deepens the dimples in his cheeks. "You're welcome," he murmurs, leaning up to kiss her again.

"I'm sorry," she tells his softly.

"For?"

Emma scrunches her face, hating (secretly loving) that he can pull so much vulnerability from her. "You're not going to make this easy are you?"

"Nope," he replies smugly. "What are you sorry for, love? Now speak up, I want to commit this triumphant moment to memory."

She pinches playfully at his nose. "You're an ass."

"Ah," he replies, hand trailing down her back once more, warming her skin. "But I'm _your_ ass."

Emma snorts at that, shaking her head at his antics (she should have known it would be this _simple_ to fall into this with him). "I'm sorry for…everything. For pushing you away."

"Oh…I knew you'd come around," he smirks, twisting a lock of her hair around his finger.

Emma's brow quirks at that. "How?"

He rolls them over abruptly, trapping her beneath him and pressing his lips along her jaw as his fingers dance lightly against her bare side towards her hip. "Because, love, I'm a pirate…and pirates _always_ get the treasures they seek."

_Fin_

* * *

_Dedicated to these wonderful Tumblr people: _

proudblueeyesthings, pleasantandcain, wellitsstorminlikeabitch, somebodynamednobody, islndgurl777, that-insane-shipper-girl, madjm, its-about-bloody-time-cs, killiansbuttercup, jjaamieeeeee, achaptercanbeabook12, asyouwishemma, hookier, rip-neal, wearemorethanourmistakes, backtosaveyou, bipolardanicats, a-pirate-and-his-swan, hookerspice78, beingtruetoyourselfisbadass, keepcalmwearetimeless, captainswanhook, cryingbabysteps


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